Every Beast Has Its Home
by DoceoPercepto
Summary: In which Credence survives, and Newt discovers that his suitcase has exactly one more resident than usual.
1. Rafters

Every Beast Has Its Home

At first he slept.

Maybe sleep was the wrong word for it.

He hazily flitted in and out of consciousness, never reaching sleep and yet never fully awake. The exhaustion wrapped heavily around him – it helped keep his amorphous form small and wedged in the cracks of the wood. He hardly had the energy to exist at all. Maybe he never would.

Then again, some things might make him.

But those _things_ were outside of the suitcase. And he was inside it.

* * *

Newt has never once looked at the gently undulating black wisps hugging the rafter. Nor has Newt ever addressed him, or acknowledged his presence.

But after several days of hiding in the suitcase, Credence is convinced Newt knows he's there.

"They're terribly shy," Newt says to no one in particular. The thing cradled in Newt's arms looks a bit like the fennec fox from the zoo. Except it's smaller, darker in color, and with an additional pair of eyes. Plus the thick tuft of hair at the back of its neck.

The creature nuzzles into Newt's hands and he smiles. "They don't like to come out unless it's just me. Bit picky. But they have a lot of predators." A pause. "Vulcines. They're just misunderstood, really. That fur on the back of his neck – they're spines. Awfully poisonous. But if you know how to handle them right…"

The Vulcine squeaked and bounced up Newt's arm to nibble at his hair with tiny sharp fangs.

"What did I tell you about teeth?" Newt chastised; the creature chittered and ignored him.

"It'll never grow in right with you around," Newt sighed, detangling the creature from his shoulder and touching the torn hair.

The Vulcine leapt from his arms and tackled a ball of yarn on the ground with a playful yip.

"People like them for their fur," Newt added. "The softs parts, at least. It's a bit of a sport to hunt them. Sometimes they're pets; in those cases, the spines are burned off. For safety, is what they say. It's barbaric." Newt goes quiet.

It bothers Newt, Credence realizes, and of course it does –these are his creatures: it bothers him to think of the awful ways they might be treated. But even so, the thought is surprising to him.

* * *

Newt puts a loaf of bread and a glass of water on the table, then leaves.

Several minutes pass by, and then hours.

At first Credence thinks he's forgotten it. But he'll come back and eat it, surely. It isn't Credence's. He shouldn't eat it. Although he hasn't eaten in days. Newt also has never left human food out before.

Hunger wins.

Credence flows down to the table and solidifies just long enough to eat the entire loaf, and to down the water.

He returns to the rafters as a mere wisp of smoke.

Newt never mentions it, but new food begins to appear on the table every day.

* * *

Sometimes, even safe in Newt's suitcase, the thoughts come back to him.

 _You are a miracle._

Used.

 _Come with me._

Manipulated.

 _Think of what we could achieve._

Controlled.

His ache for the magic world was _excruciating_.

Every morning he woke up, thinking that surely _surely_ he couldn't bear even one more day under Mary-Lou's oppressive tyranny, and if Graves didn't rescue him _right this minute_ he would tear himself apart to end it.

He _needed_ to belong in this place where people would not only _accept_ magic but _embrace_ it and where someone could tell him he _fit in_ but

 _You have magical ancestry but no power._

Credence spreads across the rafters, flowing along the boards until the ceiling is infested by a mass of darkness.

 _I'm done with you._

Used manipulated controlled.

His presence begins to dig into the wood, a low snarl rises from the mass.

Betrayed.

Graves' fingers combing through his hair, an arm around his shoulders –

 _Mary Lou would never hug us –_

Graves' insistence that he was special, he was unique, he was important – _that he actually mattered_.

He was _nothing_ \- he knew he was _nothing_ and he deserved all he got but somewhere in there he had indignation and fury and power and he _wasn't_ nothing!

 _If he hadn't turned on me, if he had just taken me with him and if I could matter and if he'd –_

If he'd give him that affection, that warmth –

Weak, weak, weak! Cowering stupid _child_ aching for something as small as physical _affection_ , and Graves didn't have to _beat_ him to earn obedience, all he had to do was _pretend to care_ and then Credence was wrapped around his finger _-_

Everything explodes.

* * *

Newt isn't looking at him, he never does, he only really looked at him in the subway, but he isn't looking now, and his jaw is tight.

Credence instinctively flattens himself to the rafters, because he knows it's his fault.

Newt stands frozen in the center of the room, as if trying to decide whether he has words for speaking or not. The shack is half in ruins. Newt looks like he's restraining the urge to run and check every single corner of his suitcase.

Credence experiences the strangest compulsion to apologize and hand him his belt. Lashings won't make up for it, though. He deserves them, and worse.

"Are any of them hurt?" Newt finally says and his words are stiff and frigid.

Credence doesn't answer right away, and Newt finally nails his eyes directly onto him. "Are any of my creatures hurt?" he demands louder.

"No," Credence answers, his voice disembodied.

Newt closes his eyes, exhales.

"I'm sorry," Credence adds. He wants to hand over his belt, but to do that he'd have to be corporeal.

"I'm going back to England." Another pause, he looks away. "You're not really supposed to smuggle people in your luggage. You're not really supposed to smuggle creatures over, either."

Credence wonders if he's being given permission.

"Credence," Newt says, "if I bring you to England, you mustn't leave the suitcase in that form. Not once."

Credence is silent, but he hopes Newt can sense his sincerity. He hadn't meant to. He doesn't want to do it again.

Newt repairs the damage done to the shack, and leaves to tend to his animals. Credence is lonely.

* * *

Several days pass, and Newt doesn't speak to him.

The loneliness grows.

* * *

"There's something I want to show you," Newt finally says, and he has Credence's attention instantly.

Then he leaves, not out of the suitcase, but deeper into it, turning the corner and departing from Credence's sight. Credence wonders if he is supposed to follow, but doesn't much want to. Here, clinging to the rafter, he feels that things are stable. More stable. Mostly stable.

A flare of self-hatred at his own self-pity. He's been camping in Newt's chest without ever asking permission and he's got no right, he's intruding, and now after all he's done – he's worthless, a stupid child cowering away from the world, not even able to move from this spot.

Then Newt pops his head back in; his eyes briefly dart to the rafters and then back to the floor. "Credence," he blurts, as if he felt he hadn't been specific enough before.

Credence flinches; his form flows faster around the rafters, thicker, agitated. He'd rather not interact. He'd rather not be anybody.

"Might be easier to walk," Newt suggests.

Walking means being corporeal.

"Come on then," Newt says, and he hasn't beaten Credence and he hasn't kicked him out of the suitcase and he was a wizard but he wasn't like Graves.

Credence thinks of Newt splayed on the train tracks, spell after spell striking him.

Maybe he can manage this for Newt.

Silently, he drips down from the rafters until he's kneeling, shivering, on the floor. It's disorienting. Without even trying, he feels the unsteadiness of his human form, like it's a thin sheet of paper trying to encase a whorl of fire. He clenches his fists to his chest.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He hates that Newt is watching, because he'd rather nobody see him. It's humiliating enough, being –

 _A freak._

Not that Newt is really _looking_. He's not ashamed of looking, or _afraid_ of looking, but it's – it's what Newt does. That's… comforting.

Credence stands, all at once, and keeps his own eyes affixed to the floor.

"Right, then. This way," Newt says.

It's hard not looking around, just a bit. For all his time in the suitcase, Credence has never actually left his little corner of the shed's ceiling. And the suitcase, he realizes, is _huge_. Full of animals, and definitely not the kind of animal you'd find in your run of the mill zoo.

Credence unwittingly finds his eyes darting left and right, hungrily taking in the fantastical environments and creatures that abounded here.

 _Magic._ Of course, because Newt was a wizard. Magic creatures. Graves hadn't told him much about magic creatures.

The more Credence thought about it, Graves hadn't told him much at all about magic. Just enough to keep him interested. Keep him hopeful.

Wisps branch off from his hands: Credence tucks his hands in his pockets and shoves away the thoughts.

"I could teach you," Newt says suddenly, shooting a furtive glance back. "About my creatures, I mean."

"Can you read my mind?" Credence asks, because Newt's question sounded similar to what he'd been wondering.

Newt looks surprised. "I've never been any good at that magic."

Credence furrows his brow. So there's different areas of magic, and you could be good at one and not another. Like with non-magic people. Oddly, the desire rises in him to transform again. He's good at that.

There's a surge of pride, poisoned by shame. He thinks he likes it, what he can do.

The room suctions out of existence for a single moment – Credence envisions his own belt reared back, ready to fly down and flay his skin for daring to think what he just did.

He jumps and the room returns. It's dark, and they're beside a mossy hillock, upon which stand several four-legged large-eyed creatures.

"All right?" Newt inquires.

"Y-yes sir." Credence is happy he didn't transform after all because he doesn't do anything good like that. Not that he does any good anyway.

Newt reaches out his hand to thin air, and grasps something. As he pulls, the very air itself seems to peel back like a canvas, and a snowy tundra world is revealed.

Newt nudges his head toward this opening and smiles fleetingly. "Go on."

Credence eyes him. Is this a trick?

The shivering starts.

"Nothing in there is dangerous," Newt informs him.

Credence doesn't ask him to promise, because he didn't think anyone kept promises anymore.

He steps into the snow anyway, and Newt follows – nothing dangerous happens. But deeper into the tundra they do come upon something, something very familiar and dark, trapped in a floating bubble.

"It's an Obscurus," Newt informs him. "They are very rare, but terrifically powerful. They are… developed when a child suppresses their magical ability, often to avoid persecution."

A lot of things click really fast. "I'm…" Credence trails off.

'To be properly technical, you're an Obscurial. Host to the Obscurus. A very unique one, too. See, most - most don't live past ten years. You're very extraordinary."

Graves had said the same thing. _Obscurial. Extraordinary._ Credence hadn't understood at the time, because he hadn't known exactly what it was. He thinks he understands a lot better now.

 _You are a miracle._

"They – they're not well studied," Newt continues on with the air of one who doesn't comprehend conversational norms. "After witches and wizards went underground, the numbers of Obscurials dropped. No one's seen any for a century." Newt isn't being shy about looking at him now – in fact, he's practically staring. "But... there are exceptions," he says matter-of-factly.

 _Me_. Credence blinks incomprehensibly at the Obscurus. There's an odd disconnect in his mind. He can't be this creature. He can't be what Newt is describing. He's… weak, powerless.

His mind drifts back to the subway station, where he'd raged through the tunnels in a fervid bid to hurt Graves back.

His shoulders begin to shake; his head lowers.

"Hey, hey," Newt breaks in delicately, not unlike the way he'd talk to one of his creatures. "Credence? Credence, are you with me?"

A comforting hand settles at the base of his neck. Suddenly everything inside him breaks. There is no reason and instantly Credence hates himself for it. But he can't seem to stop it.

Against his own will, he slumps bonelessly against Newt's chest, face buried against his shoulder, and – oh god – he's _crying_.

 _No no_ … why is he _crying?_

Of all of the humiliating things to do in front of Newt… the wizard must think so badly of him, first wrecking part of his shack and then just bursting into tears all over him.

Credence is mortified to realize he's crying _on_ Newt's jacket and it's disgusting, getting the fabric wet –

"Oh," Newt says in surprise.

Flushing in shame and humiliation, Credence moves to get himself off of Newt but – Newt's arms close around his shoulders and hold him in place.

"All right, settle down," Newt says soothingly, hands rubbing slowly between Credence's thin shoulder blades. "That's it, easy does it…"

Somehow all of it comes out in tears – all the anger and humiliation and horror, thoughts of Graves' betrayal and Mary-Lou's death and the number of times that hated belt sliced open his skin.

Newt is too patient with him, repeating gentle words and holding him close like he doesn't deserve but Credence helplessly leans into it until his tears alleviate, and all that's left are shaking hiccups and gasps.

"Sorry," Credence whispers. He yanks away all at once and tries to make himself look as small as possible, as if at some point he'd vanish entirely and nobody would have to look at him anymore. He instantly misses the warmth.

"Hobgrubble soup," Newt says.

Credence flicks his gaze up briefly. "S-sorry, what?"

Newt smiles. "Hobgrubble soup. My mother made it for me whenever I felt under the weather. Tastes better than it sounds, I promise. Do you want a bite?"

"Thank you," Credence whispers.

"Come on, then." Newt begins to stride back to the cabin, only to pause and half-turn back. "By the way, would you fancy a better place to stay?"


	2. Bedroom

Bedroom

Newt can add rooms to his suitcase.

On some level this makes sense, because Credence doubts it's possible to simply go out and purchase a suitcase with identical properties to Newt's.

One some level this makes _no_ sense, because it's magic.

At any rate, Newt adds another room, and it isn't a room like the others – not a savannah plain, or tundra banks. It's a very _human_ room. Small, quaint, a twin bed in the corner; the walls are a soft canary yellow, and the drawers and dresser are of rich dark wood.

"It's a bit better than the rafters," Newt says apologetically.

Credence quavers in place, head obediently bowed, because he can't seem to bring himself to thank Newt. _An entire room. He's made an entire room._ "You – you don't have to," Credence finally says.

"Well, and that's exactly why I did."

Credence cringes. _But please don't, this is too much._

"I'll get the soup," Newt offers.

Credence is left staring at the new room – _his_ new room – and he doesn't dare to touch anything. Better to stand right here in the middle. He doesn't want to wreck anything.

He remembers how he'd destroyed Newt's shack. But Newt had just put it back together again with a single wave of his wand – wood and stone and debris all flying up into the air and slotting themselves back into their rightful places.

Suddenly he aches for magic again.

 _No._ The belt raised, Modesty's voice, _my momma, your momma, witches gonna die!_

"Here you are."

Credence jumps and turns. There's a bowl of… soup? Newt's got that lopsided grin on his face.

"Better than it looks. Sit."

Credence slinks over to the bed, while Newt pulls out a chair and sits on it backwards.

The bowl is warm in his hands, but the slosh inside it looks less than appetizing – chunks of unspecific greyish meat, and a dull brown broth with bits of pasta. Credence isn't very deterred, however. What his ma cooked wasn't any good, either.

When he lifts a spoonful to his mouth, though, the taste has his eyes widening. It's like nothing he'd ever tasted; rich and delectable. "Thank you," Credence stutters out.

They eat quietly for several minutes, only the clinking of spoons against the bowl and the occasional slurp from the soup. Credence isn't used to this much silence outside of Mary-Lou's house, as most people simply talk over him. He really should say something – in fact, he's pretty sure Newt is waiting for him to say something, but Credence doesn't much want to.

No, that's not true.

He has questions.

But he doesn't know where to start and he still isn't sure about Newt.

He wishes he had not cried.

"Why…" Credence begins, only to falter.

"Yes?" Newt perks up.

Credence averts his eyes and mumbles stuffily, "why do you care about me?"

Newt goes quiet, and Credence thinks he has him there. Then, "because you're hurting. You're hurting from people who've done horrible, unfair things to you. And I can't stand to see that."

"I got them back for what they did."

Newt stops eating. "In my experience, that doesn't stop the hurting."

"No."

"Well then, I'm here to help you."

Credence lowers his chin nearly to his chest. The empty bowl quivers in his hands. "I don't know if I want to be helped."

"I can't make you," Newt tells him casually, and begins to eat again. "You're a phenomenally powerful wizard, Credence; I couldn't stop you if you decided to leave."

Credence blinks. "You couldn't?"

"Oh, no."

Nobody has ever said something like that before. Everyone in some way either controlled him or spat on him.

 _Can I come closer?_ Newt had asked. He'd _asked._

Credence sets aside his bowl. He opens his mouth, struggles to speak. He makes an embarrassing noise, a word that got strangled halfway through. Newt is patient and doesn't say a thing, contenting himself with his soup.

Finally, breathlessly, all in a rush, "can you teach me magic?" He instantly regrets the question. He's giving Newt the chance to hurt him, he's letting people hurt him again, he's asking something so vulnerable and hopeful and _wrong._ Newt will say no. Credence braces himself.

Newt's expression turns speculative. "Yes, I think so," he answers, as though it was a given he'd _want_ to teach magic, but not quite so certain he'd be _able_ to.

Credence sucks in a sharp breath and doesn't dare ruin the moment with words.

"I imagine that would be breaking a lot of laws," Newt adds.

"You did take me to Europe in your luggage," Credence nervously replies, and it shocks him almost as much as Newt to realize he'd made a joke. "Sorry," he tacks on at the end.

"No, no." Newt grins. "You're quite right."

* * *

It takes a few days, and Credence doesn't dare ask why. He's lucky enough to have Newt willing to teach him in the first place, and so he can't be impatient about it.

In those days, he does witness Newt creating _another_ space in the suitcase, and Credence is filled with guilt when he realizes it might be for him.

Then again, it doesn't take Newt long to create it.

As Credence stands stiffly behind him, shoulders pulled up and head bowed, Newt lifts his wand.

The very air before him solidifies like a wall and then tears as if someone had lashed through it with his belt. The torn sides explode outward and form rigid lines, constructing the outline of an enormous exhibit. Newt hums thoughtfully – all at once, the details pop right into place, and where there was once nothing, there is now a huge rectangular room, well lit beneath a crisp blue sky, and flowing with short, springy grass. There's a few bushes scattered about, and a few rocks. A crystal blue brook bubbles cheerfully from one side of the room to the other before completely ceasing to exist at the wall's limit.

Credence blinks. There's also little red wooden targets – some in the trees, some on the ground, some floating listlessly in the air.

"Practice room," Newt explains.

It's several more days before the subject is broached again.

* * *

Wands.

A lot of them _._ Credence counts eight, which is seven more than he's ever held in his lifetime. Newt has them neatly lined up, side by side, on a flat rock in the practice room. Credence then understands that this is why Newt had waited to teach him – he'd needed to get him a wand. But he doesn't know why there's eight: he really only needs one.

Credence shivers and stares at them. Excitement bubbles and swells inside a cage of fear. _Magic is ungodly._

He wants to try it.

He doesn't dare touch the wands.

"I would have rather got more," Newt confesses. "It's not easy to get extras, though. Bit worried it'd be a madhouse taking you to a proper shop, too." Newt makes an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "Don't think they get Obscurials often."

Credence smiles weakly. His eyes don't leave the wands. "What do I do?"

"Wave one around a bit."

"I want to learn."

"Go on."

Credence doesn't move.

Newt elaborates, "young witches and wizards don't select their own wands, Credence. The wands select their witches and wizards. The purpose of showing you more than one is so you can tell which resonates with you."

That wasn't something he'd known. He inches nearer. Did that mean wands had personalities?

What if none of them wanted to choose him? Credence glances furtively at Newt's wand, lazily held at the magizoologist's side. Newt had probably gotten his easily. It probably chose him right away.

Credence turns his attention to the new wands.

They're all different lengths and colors; one has a silvery cap at the end while another has a bronze cap and a ring around it. Six have distinctive handles; two are carved with intricate patterns. One is ivory-colored, two are obsidian, and the rest are varying shades of brown. Some are smooth, others rough.

If the wand chose the wizard, then it didn't matter which he picked. It would either like him or it wouldn't.

 _Dread_. None of them would like him. He'd pick one up and it wouldn't work for him, it wouldn't want anything to do with him, and at first he'd stay hopeful, but one by one each would be useless in his hand and then maybe Newt would have admit he was a worthless wizard and maybe not a wizard at all.

"Credence," Newt says sharply, and Credence jumps, startled. He'd been shivering, he realizes, and black wisps had begun to swirl around him.

Credence shudders. He's been worse at controlling it lately. Before, around Ma, it just burst out and raged, but then withdrew and he could hide it, for hours, days. Now it seems to be constantly teasing under his skin, like an incessant itch that he aches to scratch.

He _needs_ to get it under control! He needs to contain it and stop it from constantly tearing at him!

"Credence," Newt says sharply.

Again, Credence jumps, and his eyes leap to Newt's nervously.

"Oi." Newt snaps his fingers and makes a short jerking gesture with his hand, not like he's angry, but that he's trying to keep Credence's attention. "Stop thinking about it."

"Sorry." Credence shuffles over to the wands and arbitrarily picks up the closest to him. Once it's in his hand, he sees that it's deep smooth mahogany, free of any extra designs or patterns.

"What do I do?" he whispers.

"Accio?"

Credence glances up nervously. Was that a hex? Was Newt trying to hurt him?

"Accio," Newt emphasizes. "It's a rather simple one, I think – can't remember what I learned first. But accio should do. It's ah, the Summoning Charm. Here." He springs up and tugs off his left boot. Dawdling about five feet away, he places the boot on a rock and returns to Credence's side, not seeming to mind that his sock is now dirty and brambled. "Point the wand at my boot and simply say, _accio._ It will summon the boot to you."

That sounded gloriously simple.

Credence pauses for a second, trying to figure out if he was supposed to hold the wand a certain way. Newt doesn't provide any feedback, so Credence assumes he's doing all right. He raises the wand and points it at the boot – it feels simultaneously silly and empowering.

"A-Accio!"

A small wind brushes his bangs.

Nothing else happens.

The boot sits innocently upon the rock, unmoved.

Fear grips him. He doesn't have magic power after all. This was all a mistake –

"Rarely works on the first try," Newt says.

Credence listens.

"You've been performing magic in very unusual ways, Credence. It's as if some routes for magic have been closed tight, while others are open. It may be tricky to use the wand as a conduit for your magic, but you have the power in you. Try again. Think about the power you have. Focus it in the wand, and keep in mind what you want done – to summon an object."

That seems like a lot more instruction than the first time.

Shaking, Credence lifts the wand again. _Focus on the power._

Okay… focus on… his power. That dark, roiling mass. That monstrous thing tearing up his insides, screaming to be let out, to wreak destruction - Credence shuts down on the thought. He can't let that out. He just needs to try harder to do magic the right way.

 _Keep in mind what you want done._

Clearing his throat, he imagines the boot whisked up from the rock and floating over to him. "Accio!" he instructs, firmer this time.

Again, nothing. Frustration spikes.

Newt presses lips together, intrigued. "You're suppressing it."

Credence looks away and holds the wand close to his chest. "I'm sorry."

"You're afraid of it."

"I want to do magic," Credence whispers.

Newt's gaze is intent and academic, like he's evaluating one of his creatures. "Relax this time," he advises thoughtfully.

Right. For the third time, the wand raises, Credence's knuckles are white around it.

"Hang on." Newt steps behind him. Hands press firmly into his shoulders where the muscles are tight and clenched. "Relax."

Credence breathes hard through his nose and tries not to lean into the touch.

"Relax," Newt says, softer.

 _Relax._ Advancing outwards from Newt's touch, his muscles lose their tension. As he breathes in, the tension gathers, and as he breaths out, it eases – with each breath, the stress and strain are expelled from his body.

"Slower," Newt says. His fingers glide down Credence's spine, and then back up. "Slow breathing. In… out…"

Credence closes his eyes.

"No, leave them open. You'll need to see."

Reluctantly he obeys.

"Are you ready?

Gentle nod.

"Go on. Draw from your strength."

This time, there is nothing tentative. His feet are firmly grounded, his stance secure, and he stares right at the boot. He _will_ do magic.

"Accio!" he cries – and instantly he knows something is wrong.

A violent force swoops outward from his chest - the wand shrieks like a tortured beast and _shatters_ in his hand. A vicious sliver of wood splits his palm open; another cuts his cheek. Credence gasps and drops the ruined wand.

While its pieces fall to the ground, he bends over and clutches his bleeding hand with his good one, a pitiful groan of pain emerging from his throat.

"I'm so sorry, that was my fault. That was all my fault," Newt rushes to say, "Sh-shh, hang on, let me see… I can fix it right away-" Newt reaches for his hand, only for Credence to yank it away, eyes burning and threatening to turn white.

Newt freezes. He's still bent over a bit, cautious, not unlike the way he approaches his more dangerous animals. "Credence, I am very very sorry. You've done nothing wrong, Credence, nothing at all. Do you hear me? It's not your fault. Rather – I was a bit impatient, I wanted to see you do magic, but I pushed you, and that was wrong…" he trails off, eyes widening.

Credence, for once, is completely still, not a single quaver or tremble to be seen. Sharply he sticks out his freely bleeding hand, opening up his fist. Before Newt's very eyes, the sand-like black tendrils appear and weave in a stitching-like pattern over the cut. Bit by bit, the wound is sealed up, until nothing remains but a tiny white scar.

"Oh," says Newt.

Credence pulls his hand to his chest and cowers. He didn't know he could do that.

"No, no –" Newt says hurriedly. "That's – that's brilliant, Credence. That's amazing. Can I – Do you might if I look?"

Credence tenses. Mr. Graves always looked at his hands. Touched them. Healed them.

Newt understands, and doesn't approach any further. Instead he continues, "to do something like that with no practice at all…" Then his lopsided smile appears. "Credence, you'll make a fantastic wizard in the end."

Credence lifts his eyes. His expression is the closest Newt has ever seen him get to a smile.


	3. The World

The World

Newt lounges just outside of his open suitcase, whistling softly and pretending like Credence isn't taking an unnecessarily long time to exit the suitcase.

Credence is immensely grateful for this. He's not left the suitcase since approximately a month ago, when he first fled into it. In fact, he would have been happy staying there, where the temperature is always moderate, and food appears on the table every day, and Newt helps him harness his magical abilities.

Newt, unfortunately, was not as pleased about the idea.

"You're a human being, Credence – not a creature to lock up," he had stressed. "You must become part of the human world."

It's not an appealing thought. The human world means betrayal, whips, and pain. Perhaps he doesn't want to be part of a world like that.

But then Newt started talking about the wizarding world, and he maybe got a bit interested.

Newt's head appears at the suitcase entrance. "Credence? Everything all right down there?"

Credence's throat works to form words that never emerge. As he paces, his hands are tight fists.

"I'll get tea," Newt decides, but before he can leave, Credence jerks his head up.

"What if I lose control?" he says all in one breath.

Newt raises a bemused eyebrow. "Have you lost control recently?"

"No, but this is different."

Newt hums. "You'll end back in the suitcase. You won't hurt anyone."

"Are you sure?"

"Swear it," Newt smiles softly. "Now, did you want tea? There's this new shop down the street…"

"No, I'm coming out."

Credence exhales heavily. This is easy. Just climb the little ladder and he's done, he's out. That's all it is. He's spent his life out of the suitcase, and he can manage fine outside of it now.

 _You call what you did managing fine?_

His palms inadvertently sting, despite the fact they have long since healed. Sometimes the pain comes back, even when nothing is physically wrong.

When he told that to Newt, convinced there was damage neither of them could see, Newt assured him that it was real, but it wasn't physical. It was something his head conjured, but if his heart was strong enough, he could push through it and the pain would go away.

One hand slaps down on the wooden step. Push through it. He begins to climb.

Credence's fingers appear over the edge of the suitcase and his head peeks up.

Newt avoids his eyes. "Good day, isn't it?"

They aren't outside, which makes Newt's comment sound strange. But sometimes Newt says things like that - like he's not sure exactly what to say and just fills in the space with whatever pops into his head.

They're in a bedroom, which looks like a completely ordinary room. Credence's brow furrows. "Where did you say we were?"

Newt laughs. "This isn't Diagon Alley yet. That's just around the corner. This is a Muggle hotel room. Best if we don't stay long. I haven't reserved the room, see – just popped in to let you out."

"Oh."

"Personally, I don't much like the color," Newt says, flitting one hand at the wallpaper, one corner of his lips quirking as if he'd said a joke.

Red and gold? The colors didn't seem very objectionable, but maybe Newt was just making conversation.

"I'm going to come up now," Credence says.

"By all means."

Slunching his shoulders, Credence clambers from the suitcase and stands firmly on the carpet, eyes held respectfully low.

"Now, don't go do that," Newt chastises, and Credence jumps.

"Do what?"

"Hunch over like that. Do you know how tall you stand in the suitcase?"

Credence chews his lower lip. No, in fact, he didn't.

He didn't think at all about standing up straight or not in the suitcase. There's too much else to think about, and too much else to do. Feeding the creatures alongside Newt keeps him pretty preoccupied, if Newt's lessons on wandless magic aren't sufficient. Even in his free time, he likes to go visit the kneazles, who purr and rub at his calves, or the bowtruckles, who consider him a superior tree to their current one. Even the Mooncalves like to nuzzle up against him, and with all this company wherever he went – well, he didn't think about the way he was standing at all.

Why would he?

Newt does not press the topic. Instead, he continues in an entirely different subject. "You'll like Diagon Alley, Credence. One of the oldest wizarding districts. It started centuries ago with Ollivander's and the Leaky Cauldron, but all sorts of places have sprouted up since. It's very popular for Hogwarts students – you remember when I mentioned Hogwarts."

"Will they know I'm a…." _Freak._

"You will look perfectly ordinary, for a wizard." Newt snaps the suitcase shut.

"I don't have a wand," Credence adds as he trots after Newt. "Won't they notice I don't have a wand?"

"Wizards don't traditionally run around with their wands in their hands for no reason."

"What if they do notice I don't have one?"

"Then explain you're extraordinarily talented at wandless magic."

"I'm not, though."

Newt halts just before the hotel's front door. Turning on his heel, he faces Credence directly. "Credence, how many spells do you think I can do without a wand?"

"I… I don't know. A lot?"

"Four. Only simple ones. And that's more than some can do."

Credence falters. That's not a lot of spells. Over the month that Newt's been training him, they'd covered plenty more than four.

"Just two days ago, you transfigured me into a kneazle," Newt points out.

"You were stuck that way for three hours."

"Not the worst experience of my life. The point is, for an Obscurial… no, for _any_ wizard, you've demonstrated extraordinary talent and power. You're performing spells at a level far beyond a first-year at Hogwarts, and you're not even using a wand to do it! Frankly, if some witches and wizards in Diagon Alley knew about that, they'd be jealous."

"Will they be jealous?" Credence whispers worriedly. He doesn't want to make anyone feel bad, not over him.

"Unless you go transfiguring every witch and wizard into a kneazle, they won't bother you in the slightest."

Credence smiles faintly. Worry still gnaws at his stomach, but for Newt's sake, he tries to ignore it.

Newt nods. "Leaky Cauldron is this way."

They exit into the street, and it's a bustling cobblestone road that looks not too different from New York. Credence hugs close to the shop windows and Newt.

"There's all sorts of things you can find in wizarding shops," Newt tells him. "Not just wands and robes."

"Are there wizarding stores in New York?"

"Oh, yes. Everywhere across the world, really. Ah, here we are."

Newt ducks into a shop – Credence darts after him, glimpsing a weather-worn sign boasting of a cracked cauldron.

The door chimes behind them, and Credence freezes up. The place is frighteningly crowded, and right away Credence knows they're all witches and wizards. It's hard to say exactly how he knows, but he does. Do they know what he is? Do they realize he's not _really_ one of them?

The reminder of his own nature shudders through him. The shadows creep under his skin, and he's absolutely certain that if he stays here one second more he -

"Credence." Newt taps his shoulder. "Come along."

Credence jumps, snaps out of his daze. He's fine. Newt thinks he can manage. He can manage. "S-sorry."

Newt winds through the crowd, looking almost as uncomfortable as Credence. "Not that good with people," he confesses as they slip into a back alley. "Much easier to work with animals, see."

Credence looks about in confusion. The small alley doesn't have any exit. It's just a square block of brick wall. Is this Diagon Alley?

Newt flashes one of his tiny smiles. "Magic," he says, and turns to the far wall. Raising his wand, he _tap tap taps_ a pattern out on the bricks.

Nothing happens.

Credence wipes his sweaty hands on his pants.

Newt's brow furrows. "Hold on… I had this down, I swear…."

 _Tap tap tap tap,_ he tries another pattern. "No…."

Credence glances back at the door.

 _Tap tap tap tap tap_.

There's a grating noise, like sandpaper rubbing together; Credence jumps as he realizes the very bricks that make up the wall are parting down the middle, rotating, shifting, _opening_.

"Aha!" Newt declares.

A new archway forms, revealing an explosion of color and people.

"Diagon Alley," Newt says triumphantly. Credence freezes.

Owls of all colors, shapes, and sizes swoop overhead, and hoot and chirp in a store window. A rainbow array of candies are positioned directly beside stacks of books ambitiously reaching over slanted roofs, while one store is selling outrageous pointed hats that almost everybody seems to be wearing.

Men, women, and children run and mill about wearing robes of purples, greens, reds and blacks. Credence clutches his own stern black outfit self-consciously.

"It's really sprung up in the last few years, from a couple of shops here and there to this," Newt says, weaving through the other witches and wizards.

Credence can do nothing but silently take it in, his eyes practically popping from his head. He can't seem to turn his head fast enough to catch each new bizarre thing cropping up in a window or store front, but yet the witches and wizards present didn't seem at all flustered.

"I-Is this what magic is like?" Credence murmurs.

"The commercial side of it, I suppose," replies Newt. "Often it's a bit too crowded for me."

Partly, Credence has to agree. Though the trinkets, baubles, squawking beasts, talking books and moving pictures are all astonishing and overwhelming and hardly of this world, the narrow street became claustrophobic very rapidly.

"Hm…" Newt glances at Credence. "Let's go to the menagerie. Fewer people. Been in the family for generations, if I remember right."

"Menagerie?"

"Animals," Newt elaborates. "Any kind of companion animal a wizard would want. Unless of course you're me, but – well."

Credence chuckles, and then flinches at the sound of his own laughter.

Together they slip into a rather cramped and tiny store, but one that fewer people occupy.

A gentle humming emanates from one corner, while there's the sound of little feet pattering about in cages all up and down the aisles. Credence jumps at a burst of fire somewhere to his right. When he glances over, a large jewel-shelled turtle-like creature huffs out smoke.

"Fire crab," Newt explains. The magizoologist seems reluctant to move from the door without some indication from Credence about where to go. Stiffly, Credence selects an aisle at random and shuffles down it.

"Clabberts, Flitterbies – those can be mighty cheering when you're feeling down – oh, Darpoofles – I hope they have a license for those."

Credence kneels beside a black wire cage, which contains a population of bizarre multi-colored snails.

"Streelers."

"Hmm-mmm-mmm~" comes the humming from the shop's corner.

Credence lifts his head. There, in a little box, dozens of tiny-multi-colored puffballs are gathered. "What are-?" he starts and then trails off.

He drifts towards the little puffs and extends his hand gently. Maybe one of them will like him. Newt's animals seem to like him okay. As long as they aren't scared of him?

Suddenly anxious that he may be scaring them, Credence pulls away – but to his surprise, a runtish fawn-color puff clings to his hand.

"Just a puffskein," Newt chuckles. "Hullo, you."

"I'm not hurting him, am I?" The puffskein is a lot smaller than most of Newt's animals. It has cute little eyes and a very very fluffy body, but it looks very fragile. What if he drops it? Credence cups both hands beneath it cautiously.

"Her," Newt corrects. "I think she likes you."

"Her?" Credence squints, trying to discern how Newt figured that out.

"Subtle differences in the facial structure," Newt explains.

"Are you sure she isn't just scared?"

Cupped in his hands, the tiny creature emits a soft purring sound, which both tickles his ear and feels oddly soothing.

"Absolutely sure. Would you like her?"

"Whu-?"

"The puffskein, Credence."

"O-oh, no I – I might accidently hurt her, o-or forget to take care of her or –"

"You fed the Nundo yesterday, Credence. I fully trust a puffskein to your hands."

"But – I don't any money –"

"Consider this your paycheck, then."

"My paycheck?"

"You've been assisting me with my animals for weeks." Newt glances down at the sickles in his hand, and a frown appears on his lips. "I pay you very poorly."

"N-no. It's plenty. You cook, too, and the bedroom and everything – it's already too much."

"Then one puffskein will do little harm." At this, Newt strides purposefully up to the counter.

Credence sighs. There's not much he can do to dissuade Newt, if the magizoologist really gets in the mood.

Credence lifts the puffskein to eye-height. "I'm sorry," he whispers to it quietly. "If you'd like to go back to your box, you can. You don't have to be around me."

She purrs softly.

Credence frowns. "No, you don't understand. I'm not even a real wizard. I don't have a wand or anything. I'm an Obscurial."

Nothing he says seems to deter the puffskein whatsoever. A tiny tongue licks at her little pink nose. This task done, she makes one soft 'mhyep!' noise and snuggles lower onto his palm.

"If you're sure…"

"Mhy," the puffskein says.

Tears sting at Credence's eyes and he fiercely blinks them away. Now is not the time. But… His first real pet. A _magical_ pet, nonetheless!

"Thank you," Credence whispers.

He tells Newt thank you again, as well – in fact, Newt sternly tells him he's not allowed to keep thanking him, and they move on from the menagerie.

His puffskein perches contentedly on his shoulder.

"What will you name her?"

"I'm not sure yet…" Credence hasn't ever had a pet of his own in his entire life. He's never had the pressure of naming something the right thing, and wants to mull over it before deciding.

"Want to go somewhere quieter?" Newt suggests, to which Credence nods.

"The bookshop, then."

The bookshop, as it turns out, is the quietest. Only a few people flit between the shelves, many with their faces buried in books.

"It's a madhouse around the time for school supply shopping, but calm otherwise," Newt comments.

Credence instantly likes this place; the aura is warm, and gentle, and the scent of books is pleasant.

"Are there any books about Obsurials?" Credence whispers as they tread into the shelves.

"Regrettably, no. Not one." Newt shoots him a sideways glance, not quite meeting his eyes, and there's a smile at the corner of his lips. "Not yet, anyway. No one's had the material to make one, see."

"I hear they're rare," Credence utters.

"Very. Although, writing a book that addresses Obscurials could be extraordinarily helpful for wizardkind. If such a book were to be public knowledge, perhaps children wouldn't – slip through the cracks, so to speak."

Credence slips a book off the shelf and fiddles with it mindlessly. "It'd be useful for an author to first know an Obscurial."

"In our current world, I can't imagine that happening. You'd have to get both an Obscurial and an author."

Credence flashes a tiny hesitant smile that quickly flits away. His eyes dart. "If… If an Obscurial did happen to know an author… And maybe… maybe was willing, to um…"

"Would you like to help me with such a book, Credence?" Teasing, he adds, "I think you'd have to come with me to personally deliver one to Tina."

"Yes." Credence breathes. This time, the smile stays.


End file.
